slip me specially
between the white skins
       of your bones and under
the blackened cloth.

what am I when walking
but dull movement?

white iron carriage
under a sweet lamp.
the mouth slightly ajar, lungs intact
you are telling me
all about me
and a big fuck-all
       to the world
and to the machine
that claws it way
waltzing
into your head.

at these kinds of times
I know you,
when your arms grow
stale and the soul falls
numb and you know you’re too old
to be hiding
       this away
and the bathroom floor floods
with smoke
an the bed collapses
and the water spills
because you knocked it when weeping,

I might know all about this,
the lip-pursed demon, puddle-full
with venom.

fold your soul sideways
and let me see
into all that black
       and white.